And somewhere in the wreckage of my perfectly organized life, I wondered if there was anything left worth saving.
Chapter Three
Samuel
The GPS on my phone had lost signal twenty minutes ago, somewhere between “turn left at the church that’s definitely not there anymore” and “continue on an unpaved road for three miles.” I was navigating by sheer stubbornness and a printed MapQuest direction sheet I’d made the tactical error of trusting, watching my rental Miata bounce over potholes that could swallow small children.
In hindsight, the convertible sports car had seemed like a good idea at the airport. Sleek, fun, the kind of car that said, “I’m on vacation and making spontaneous choices.” What it actually said was, “I’m a California idiot who doesn’t understand mountains or winter or basic geography.”
The heater was working overtime, but cold air still seeped through every seal and gap. My hands were numb on the steering wheel, and my nose felt like it might fall off. I was pretty sure I’d lost feeling in my left foot somewhere around mile marker thirty-seven.
“Why,” I said aloud to no one, “didn’t I rent a cabana on a small island in the Pacific? Somewhere tropical. Somewhere with mai tais and sand and temperatures above freezing.”
The forest didn’t answer, but the bare trees seemed judgmental about it.
I’d left Los Angeles twelve hours ago, back when the California sun had been warm and forgiving and I’d been wearing a t-shirt under my jacket like an optimist. Now, in early December Virginia, I understood that I’d made a terrible mistake. Multiple terrible mistakes, actually, starting with the Miata and ending with my complete lack of appropriate winter clothing.
But then I rounded a curve, and the view opened up.
Mountains stretched out before me in layers of blue and gray, misty and ancient, dusted with snow on their peaks. The late afternoon sun caught the edges of clouds, painting everything in shades of gold and rose. Pine trees clustered thick along the roadside, their branches heavy with winter. The air—even through my inadequate car heater—smelled different. Clean. Real.
For the first time in years, I felt my face do something it had almost forgotten how to do: I smiled. Not the Dr. Brock Blaze smile I’d perfected for the camera. Not the polite smile I gave to fans and photographers. A real, genuine, nobody’s-watching smile that came from somewhere deep in my chest.
Maybe the mountains weren’t such a bad idea after all.
The sign appeared suddenly, hand-painted wood that had seen better decades: “Pine & Dandy Resort - Cabins Available.” An arrow pointed down an even narrower road, and I sent a silent prayer to whatever god protected idiots in sports cars before following it.
“Resort” was an extremely generous term for what I found.
Pine & Dandy consisted of a log cabin office that looked like it had been built sometime during the Roosevelt administration—the first one—and a cluster of smaller cabins scattered among the trees beyond it. Everything was weathered wood and stonechimneys, rustic in a way that was either “charming” or “please God let there be running water,” depending on your perspective.
I parked the Miata in front of the office, its bright red paint absurdly cheerful against all the brown and green, and immediately regretted opening the door. The cold hit me like a physical slap. California cold was a joke—a light jacket, maybe a scarf if you were feeling dramatic. This was something else entirely.
I grabbed my jacket from the passenger seat—a stylish leather number that I now realized was about as useful as a paper umbrella—and hauled myself out of the car. My legs had gone stiff from the drive, and I took a moment to stretch, watching my breath form clouds in the air.
The office door opened, and a woman emerged who looked like she’d been carved from the same wood as the buildings. Late sixties, maybe early seventies, built like someone who’d spent her life doing actual physical labor instead of paying someone to do it for her. She wore a puffy vest over a flannel shirt, sensible boots, and an expression that suggested she’d seen everything and been unimpressed by most of it.
“You must be Bennett,” she said, not as a question.
“Samuel, yes.” I walked toward her, hand extended. “You must be—”
“Gladys Pritchard. I run this place.” She didn’t shake my hand, just looked me up and down with the kind of assessment usually reserved for livestock auctions. “You’re that actor. From the TV.”
My stomach sank slightly. So much for anonymity. “I—yes. I do some television work.”
“Midnight At Magnolia General.” She pronounced it like a disease. “My sister watches it. Says it’s trash for bored housewives.”
I blinked. “Well, she’s not wrong.”
The words came out before I could stop them, but Gladys’s expression didn’t change.
“At least you’re honest about it.” She moved past me toward the Miata, and before I could process what was happening, she was opening the passenger door and climbing in. “Come on, then.”
“I’m sorry, what are you—”
“Taking you to your cabin.” She looked at me through the open door as if I were being deliberately obtuse. “Why the hell else would I get in your car? You planning to stand in the parking lot all day asking stupid questions?”
“No, I just—I can follow you in my car if—”
